


Ramen

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexmas, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Gays vs Miscommunication, Light Angst, Noodles, Smut, Snowed In, idiots to lovers, lextra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Lexa wants noodlesNo snow in hell Clarke will shareSoy not ramentic—Lexa is in for a memorable Christmas Eve.





	Ramen

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holigays and a very merry clexmas!!! This is a Secret Santa gift for @hedaalicia on tumblr. Thanks to @faithtastic and @mopeytropey for beta-ing and enabling, and kudos to @dreamsaremywords for the tumblr moodboard.

— 1 —

Three minutes. _Doable_.

Lexa’s stomach grumbles in hasty agreement. The cup of noodle appearing like a five course meal.

Three minutes are all that separate her and the close of a blustery, miserable winter’s day that had lowered to negative double-digit temperature once the sun disappeared.

It’s the last one of her favourite flavour, Hot & Spicy with a special chilli sauce—not something her younger self could have ever handled but she has built a tolerance for it ever since spending last summer in Shinjuku where over two hundred ramen shops dot the busy streets and she took an immediate liking to Japan’s national fast food. As a postgrad having more leisure time than with which she knew what to do, Lexa gamely rolled up her sleeves and perched on a counter stool next to the businessmen who descended on the popular joint beside her flat after long work days.

While nursing a broken heart and sharing elbow room and stories with her new friends, Lexa freely and contently slurped her way through the menu until she discovered a surprising affinity for the spice variety. Washed down with a pint of Sapporo and encouraging cheers, it was a perfect way to sweat out the humid summer nights and to forget about the colour of a different sun that had made her hide out halfway across the world.

Lexa can smell the waft of rich miso soup now, can imagine topping it off with cilantro, hot peppers, scallions, and a soft boiled egg whose yolk oozes forth with a gentle poke of a chopstick. She sighs, looking at the cup on the shelf. Not the same but this is the closest she’ll get to that heated taste. Higher in sodium and calories than the original but it’ll more than do.

The work week has been hell—the holiday rush a special brand of bureaucratic torture—and she could use what little comfort this 4 oz of warmth in a bowl could offer. No one ever told her the first year of adulting after graduation would be more grinding than the four years leading up to it. After the bright lights of Tokyo, the flickering, dim lights of a musty library on the lower east side pale in comparison. Clerking and articling has none of the excitement or glamour that the Olivias on TV had her believing about, and pursuing, a career in law. She’s stopped counting the number of paper cuts suffered daily, and now holds a lifelong grudge against the pulp industry. The concept of a paperless office appears to her nightly like a far-off dream.

On top of it, the pay isn’t nearly enough. At least not for an actual five course meal. Hence, a second part-time job at the bodega downstairs from her apartment. Her landlord, Mr. San—a kind but weary older expat who came overseas as a young soldier in search of an American girl after the war ended—doesn’t trust very many people, but something about Lexa must have given him confidence to hand over the keys of his corner shop every night. It could be that she had respectfully bowed to him when they first met, an adopted habit following her time abroad, which had unwittingly earned high marks. But it could well be the dependability exuding from her steady uniform of cardigan and reading glasses, and books forever tucked under her arm, that likewise has all the neighbourhood Chinese grandmas entrusting her with their lives (and dumplings) to help them safely cross the street. She’s been late to the library on a few occasions when they tried to ply her with prawn steam rolls in gratitude until she politely bowed her way out of the stalemate. Maybe she’s just very good at bowing.

Whatever the fortitude of her hips, for ridiculously reduced rent and unfettered access to ramen noodles, all Lexa has to do is keep an eye on the rows of drinks and snacks, occasionally serve the skater bois and girls who come in for a late night soda run in this quiet part of Chinatown. She’s usually left unbothered to crack open her books and spend the evenings with her highlighters and soft K-pop music filtering through the worn speakers. It’s not a terrible deal, and it leaves her with hope she does have a promising future in contract negotiation after all.

On a break from reviewing a case study of hipsters versus Guatemalan farmers over quinoa, Lexa turns her attention to the more pressing case of boredom versus hunger. Christmas dinner at her sister is still a far-off 24 hours away. Visions of sugar plums and honey glazes aren’t helping her current situation.

But for the moment, with only a hurried granola bar counting towards her day’s nutrition, three minutes sound as good as an eight hour slow roast. Lexa salivates at the thought of salty indulgence.

She’s strategising how long it would take for her to run upstairs, put on the kettle, assemble her reduced gourmet fare and eat it as humanly fast as possible while Kuick Picks & Licks remain unattended, and Mr. San none the wiser three boroughs over. The shopowner’s sole stipulation of her employment and their informal handshake agreement is that Lexa doesn’t consume the goods on premise. The kitchenette in the back is apparently for exclusive emergency use, though he never specified what constitutes as such, only contending, _even sea bream is not delicious when eaten in loneliness_. (Debatable proverb notwithstanding, she made the small concession after he accepted a counteroffer to grant her employee rights, without prejudice, to change the shop’s awful name.)

It’s while Lexa is distractedly counting in her head the strides it would take to execute her steps for instant feel-goodness that her plan for the evening changes. As she grabs for the cup, a hand that’s decidedly not hers snatches it out of reach first.

Lexa jerks her head up, ready with a death glare for the flagrant thief, only to find a stunning scowl, if scowls could have an aesthetic quality, directed her way. The catch in her breath would be for the familiar blue eyes she isn’t prepared to find staring at her, were it not for the pursed, downturned lips. The beauty mark she tries to ignore—the same one that’s occupied one too many thoughts in the past six months—is at risk of falling off the slope.

Lexa’s shock at having her dinner swiped is forthright replaced by the sight of the very reason that led to her obsession with noodles in the first place, and the very last person she expected to see tonight, or ever again.

“Clarke.”

Three months back stateside, and half a year since their last encounter, Lexa is dumbstruck that _she_ has stepped into _her_ bodega. It takes a moment for her brain to process her ex’s sudden appearance, if they could even be called exes. Lexa’s extended absence does nothing to quell the longing to run her hand through that mess of blonde hair or to run a thumb over that protruding bottom lip and smooth out the pout. The bedhead look has always done inconvenient things to Lexa’s heart, especially when she was the reason for it, but mixed with the evening’s chill that tints cheeks a gorgeous blush, she can’t help but remember how the colour would deepen when Lexa’s hands were permitted to wander. To stake and claim. To worship.

She shakes her head to clear the unwanted memories and digs fingers into her palm instead to prevent doing something as absurd as reaching out. A tightened fist empty of Hot & Spicy is better than a handful of soft curves, she convinces herself.

Lexa waits for acknowledgment of their history, perhaps even some hint of regret or at the very least a visible sign of equal unsettling. But _nothing_. Nothing except a frustratingly perfect eyebrow raised in challenge. Of course. Lexa should know better. Things were never straightforward with Clarke, nothing straight about the nights that transpired with their ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement. They were a walking cliché that despite Lexa’s every intent to change the outcome turned out as sad and predictable as most college paramours engaged in casual sex were tragically doomed to be.

When only an awkward beat stretches between them, she subtly clears her throat to push past the uninvited flashes of bruised-kissed lips and sunken knees and crumpled bedsheets, rather hanging stubbornly onto the weighted stone in her stomach and the burn behind her eyes learning of the truth that fateful graduation night. Words she wasn’t meant to hear, from the girl that ostensibly wasn’t meant to be hers.

“What are you doing here?” Lexa asks tersely, not meaning for it to come out short but by the deepening scowl on Clarke’s face, it must have been more rude than intended.

Clarke doesn’t answer at first, looking at her as if she’s an unwelcomed ghost of Christmas past. One hand holding tightly onto the prized package while an empty basket rests in the crook of an elbow, she looks ready for a fight. Lexa doesn’t understand why, and straightens her posture to stand her ground against the murderous intent behind narrowed eyes. She refuses to falter under the scrutiny of glacial blues, despite an unfortunate predisposition to a colour undecided between winter sky and summer sea. Lexa focuses instead on a different hue, rose-dusk lips which have further thinned in unprovoked agitation. It’s baffling. If anyone should be battle-hardened, she’d have more right as the slighted party—the injurious one who had to put an ocean between them so her heart had a remote chance at recovery.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Clarke parrots back. If Lexa was holding out hope that she might be misreading the inexplicable hostility, there is no way to misread that tone. Clarke crosses her arms then, and in another misfortune for Lexa, the movement puts emphasis on her still very attractive assets, made no less appealing by the parka that covers them.

Lexa has historically been made weak by their general existence, covered or not, but she is having none of it this time. She chooses to concentrate her gaze on a safer spot above Clarke’s shoulder, making a mental note of the soy sauce on sale to restock her depleted pantry later. Maybe it’s her already trying day and her attendant hunger that has her hackles raised—and nothing to do with residual hurt—but Lexa suddenly feels protective of her right to be standing in Kuick Picks & Licks. She’s not a possessive person by nature and is no longer a second grader but nonetheless yanks the cup of noodles out of Clarke’s hand.

“I live here,” she curtly defends.

“In the store?”

“What?” Lexa is thrown off by the question.

Clarke motions with her newly noodle-less hand to their surroundings, eyes flitting as if searching for a stray mattress just lying about.

“No,” Lexa’s voice lifts towards the end more in question than statement, suddenly self conscious that she does live above a convenience store specialising in instant ramen. “I mean, yes, in the general vicinity,” she vaguely clarifies and then tacks on to justify, “good real estate prices.”

Clarke regards her skeptically, “O-kay.”

Lexa is relieved not to be further questioned on her choice of residence but, again, she should’ve known better. Clarke’s concession, however slight, was too easy. The next thing Lexa knows Clarke has breached her personal space, the wire basket jabbing inadvertently into her side, as a hand lands on the cup of noodles.

“Whatever. It’s not like I can expect you to say what you mean,” Clarke lowly seethes. “Or mean what you say. You’d think with your nose in all those law books, you’d know where to find the words.”

The fire in her eyes is the only thing keeping Lexa from rearing her head back in response to the underhanded insult. Her rancorous gaze roots Lexa in place.

“What are you talking about?”

Lexa’s genuine confusion gives Clarke momentary pause, an unreadable flicker of emotion crossing her features before she schools her expression back to irritation.

“Doesn’t matter,” Clarke dismisses as she grips the cup more securely, her fingers grazing Lexa’s hand. The tiny charge sends a spark that Lexa refuses to give any attention for the way it reminds of how electric Clarke’s touch has always been. Clarke demands tight-lipped that should brook no argument, “Let go of my dinner.”

But Lexa’s attorney-in-training side has already committed to the case and, against much better counsel to back down, digs her heels in deeper.

“No. It’s _my_ dinner.”

“They’re my noodles.”

Really, there is more than enough ramen in the store to feed an army of starved undergrads but on principle Lexa is unwilling to let go of what she’s been coveting for two hours now. She’s not giving Clarke the satisfaction of taking her happiness away a second time.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lexa is not sorry at all, “I didn’t realise Griffin was fourth generation Japanese.” She glances to the package’s branding before mockingly asking, “Or did you change your last name to Nissin recently?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Clarke fumes.

“I’m the asshole?”

It’s clear that more than dehydrated noodles are in contention, but unclear as to what exactly has them both so righteous and indignant.

“Smug and infuriating,” Clarke assails of her general personhood, then waving a hand at Lexa’s face, “that whole business,” and looking into her eyes, “and _that_ ,” without qualifying what in particular is causing offence.

“You bring out the best in me, love,” Lexa smarts back, the term of endearment out before she could stop it.

Thankfully, Clarke is too ramen-raged to notice the slip.

“Let. Go.” Clarke insists through gritted teeth.

“No.” Lexa matches her obstinacy.

It’s the most low stakes tug of war this side of the harbour. The playground two blocks down has seen more significant bloodshed over whose turn is next on the jungle gym, but by the wafting tension and their heaving breaths, it would appear as if the apocalypse looms large.

“Stop being insufferable,” Lexa huffs, knowing it’s as futile to command Clarke as it is to ask the sun not to rise but hoping nonetheless for some yield.

Really, she should have seen it coming. But Lexa’s second shock of the night still arrives unexpectedly when Clarke tips up on her toes and leans in closer. Her lungs might have stopped working as Clarke’s lips skate up the hinge of Lexa’s jaw, the faintest of touch, before she husks in Lexa’s ear.

“You first.”

The dirty play works to devastating effect. Lexa’s cheeks burn and her heart hammers. She reflexively jerks backwards, forgetful of what they’ve been fighting over. The cup’s contents are ripped open by the force of her struggle to put distance between them, flying to every corner with cinematic horror. With their height difference, a good portion lands on Clarke’s hair that would otherwise be laughable, even endearing, if Lexa isn’t so perplexed by recent turn of events.

When they each finally release their respective hold, the plastic styrofoam cup falls noiselessly to the ground, joining the scattering of dried noodles.

“Really, Lexa?” Clarke blames, back to crossing her arms as they take in the mess before them.

Lexa’s jaw clenches, working minutely back and forth as she looks to the ceiling for some divine grace to intervene. What are the chances that she’s fallen asleep atop her books on the countertop of the cash till, and with a pinch of skin, she’ll awaken to the usual stillness of night where exes don’t show up to disrupt gourmet dinner plans? It would appear slim when the sound of squeaking sneakers brings her thoughts and head back down to the situation at hand.

“What are you doing?” She asks, though it’s fairly obvious with the way Clarke is dragging her feet against the linoleum floor in sweeping motions.

“What does it look like?” Clarke retorts without looking up from her task.

Lexa’s growl is lost to the K-pop version of _All I Want for Christmas_ that picks up beat at that moment. Like Mariah, Lexa doesn’t want a lot for Christmas either. Some inner calm would be grand if world peace is too much to ask. She spins on her heel to head to the storage room.

“Are you seriously leaving?” Lexa intends to ignore Clarke’s question when the next word has her screeching to a halt, “Again.”

She looks over her shoulder to find a mix of incense and incredulity on Clarke’s face and also, incomprehensibly, an undercurrent of pain that’s quickly masked by the contempt in her voice.

“What are you talking about now?” Lexa makes an exasperated gesture of her hand.

“You’re good at that.”

“What?”

“Leaving.”

The derisive charge hits Lexa square in the chest. Given how it was Clarke who always left their bed first, Clarke who kept the boundaries, and Clarke who didn’t want more, she can’t grasp where this utterly unfair characterisation is coming from. It’s her turn to break past Clarke’s personal space. In three short strides Lexa returns to her previous spot, and driven by the adrenaline of her rising anger, has backed Clarke up against the shelving. They are practically chest to chest when she snarls out her own accusation.

“Yeah, well, you’re good at giving me a reason to go.”

Lexa knows immediately she’s gone too far when her favourite set of blues glistens. For a moment, the fight leaves Clarke, and for the first time tonight, Lexa sees the girl she’s been in love with since freshman year, wrapped in her blankets, the definition of softness while tracing the lines of her arm tattoo. In the bliss of inconsequential chatter after doing some very consequential things with their bodies, Clarke’s vulnerability came out in the most breathtaking way, in startling clear cerulean. The shine now exceeds it. It confounds Lexa.

So many unspoken words pass between them while Lexa struggles to regulate her breathing and temper. Clarke eventually breaks eye contact and turns her head in a visible swallow to keep her emotions in check.

Lexa fights her own throat tightening but manages to say, “I’m grabbing a broom,” and decides to walk off before she does something really, _really_ , stupid like kiss the hurt away.

Clarke passively nods, still not looking at her. Lexa disengages from their physical proximity, realising just then that her hand had been on Clarke’s hip. As Lexa turns her back from the only warmth she has ever truly cared about, a shivering cold creeps into her hollow chest where the heat of the noodles should’ve kept her insides toasty by now.

 

— 2 —

 

The extra few minutes Lexa takes to compose herself in the storage room—making exaggerated rummaging noises to distract from the volume of her accelerated heartbeat—are for naught when she returns to the aisle to find Clarke hunched over on her hands and knees on the floor, ass in the air, in search of something. Clarke’s parka must have gotten in her way because it’s been haphazardly tossed aside.

“Ah, got it!”

Lexa jumps at her exclamation which rolls right into shortness of breath when Clarke turns around and reveals the most hideous but accurate Christmas sweater.

_I’m sexy and I snow it._

What she can only assume to be a snowman is covered in rainbow sprinkles with a bright orange felt carrot as his nose sticking out from Clarke’s chest, as if there needed to be any more reason to draw attention to it. The sweater’s pun taunts Lexa and she has to avert her gaze out of fear of audibly agreeing to it.

She must have been in the back for awhile because the ramen has since been collected and neatly piled.

Clarke flaps the flavouring packet in her hand. “The most important bit. Can’t lose this,” she says as explanation for her position on the ground.

When Clarke finally locks onto Lexa’s staring and the direction of her puzzlement, her eyes widen at the realisation of what she’s wearing. Lexa’s anger dissipates almost entirely seeing Clarke adorably try to cover up her sweater, angling her body ineffectively out of view. She kindly ignores the knitwear travesty, and nods towards the cleanup job, “Thanks.”

“So, you _do_ live here,” Clarke teases, her tone the lightest it’s been so far, as she gestures to the broom and dustpan Lexa is holding.

“I live upstairs,” Lexa corrects, feeling a small bloom forming on her cheeks. “I, um, work here part-time.”

Clarke returns to her feet and goes to grab her coat, at the same time that Lexa reaches for it. Lexa’s quicker on this draw and shyly hands it over.

“Thanks,” Clarke mirrors, timid.

“Welcome,” she barely mutters. It’s so awfully awkward now that they’re no longer entrenched in a noodle war. She points behind them and tries to joke, “Are there any other flavours I can interest you? We’ve got an extensive selection in stock.”

“Not really, I had a craving for that particular one.” Clarke declines. Lexa wonders when she started eating ramen. “Mind if I keep this?” Clarke asks, pocketing the packet when Lexa doesn’t object. She retrieves her basket and rocks on her heels. “Right, well, I’m gonna pick up a few items for my drive and then get out of your hair.” Clarke offers a painfully polite smile followed by a doleful remark, “I’m sure you’d be happy to see me go.”

Lexa isn’t sure. At all. Picking up on the hesitation, Clarke stalls her leave, pausing by Lexa’s side, an expectant wait to be proven wrong. But Lexa is out of her depth this evening, and has yet to figure out where ground is after having the sky suddenly falling on her. Against the want of her pounding heart, she mechanically nods and then begins to sweep. Though there’s little of their mess left to gather, she needs to keep busy and her head down so as not to think about the crestfallen look of dejection that follows Clarke to the cold section.

Lexa is almost finished collecting the noodles onto her dustpan when she finally pulls her head out of her ass. She doesn’t actually want to let Clarke go, not least before asking about the last time they saw each other. It’s been a long night but an even longer six months full of doubt and saki-fuelled despair. If anything, reopening the wound will provide closure. Lexa abandons her pretend custodial mission and quickens her pace with renewed urgency over to the next aisle where she can hear Clarke’s verbal indecision about which alcoholic beverage to choose.

Lexa’s stealthy light footedness unfortunately startles Clarke who, in alarmed reaction to the touch of her shoulder, drops the wine bottle. The glass shatters in slow motion on impact and Lexa can hear Mr. San’s distant gasp as loudly as the fizzle of bubbles spilling across his shop’s floor and all over her shoes.

Deep breaths.

“Oh my god,” Clarke exhales first when the action resumes at normal live speed.

“It’s fine Clarke. I’ll clean it up.”

Lexa bends down to pick up the pieces of glass but misjudges the sharpness of one and knicks her palm against it. “Shit on a stick,” she yelps, releasing the shard yet somehow succeeding to pierce her skin deeper. Clarke swiftly lowers to her level, taking Lexa’s hand between hers, before she can duly register their new closeness.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Only a scratch.” It is definitely bigger than a scratch going by Clarke’s exasperated eyeroll to her severe under-assessment of the damage. Lexa keeps quiet about how she finds that withering look—and the gentle handling of her hand—more lethal than cut glass.

She flexes her fingers but hisses at the throbbing sensation it produces. Clarke sternly reprimands, “Don’t move.”

Lexa thought she would be numbed to blood loss by all the paper cuts she’s endured this week but the amount of red pooling is somewhat worrisome. She makes to lift her hand for closer inspection.

“I said don’t move,” Clarke bites out at her casualness towards the injury, “were you always this stubborn?”

“Clarke, it’s nothing,” Lexa downplays, attempting to wave her off but has to suck in a breath at the worsening sting made by the movement.

Clarke tsks like a worried girlfriend, nothing like the mortal ramen enemies they were just moments ago. She asks, “Where’s the first aid kit?”

As soon as Lexa directs her to its location behind the cash register, muffled cursing sounds flit from the other end of the shop. Minutes later, Clarke is back with Lexa’s broom plus a mop to clear the debris before leading her to an open area under brighter light where she can play nurse.

Lexa wasn’t ready for Clarke to leave but didn’t think this was why she would stay. They are sitting at a ninety degree angle to each other with Lexa’s hand elevated on Clarke’s knee. Clarke’s bottom and feet bracket Lexa’s outstretched legs though neither acknowledge the intimacy of their position. As Clarke works diligently to clean the minor cut, tongue cutely poking out in concentration, her question has Lexa wondering if fate is playing some cruel trick tonight.

“What’s the red button under the counter?”

“Why?”

“I might have accidentally hit it when I was looking for the first aid kit.”

More deep breaths.

With all the patience she can muster, Lexa spells out their compounding problem. “It’s the button that silently triggers the security system.”

“Oh. So some guard will come by then?”

“Nope,” Lexa does not pop the ‘p’, choosing to save her energy for the long hours ahead. “Mr. San, the owner, set it up so that the shop locks from the inside in an emergency, and only he has the keys at a secondary location to disarm it.”

Clarke stops mid-swipe of the cotton swap, a mystified look crossing her features that Lexa has been painstakingly avoiding, too much pretty assaulting her field of vision.

“That makes no sense. If there’s a security threat, why would he want to lock his employees inside with the intruders?”

Lexa has no answers for the motivations of a man who names his store Kuick Picks & Licks. Countless times she has had to turn away customers looking for adult content.

“I didn’t install the system, Clarke. Nor was it my idea.”

“So, Mr. San will come?”

“Nope,” Lexa repeats, sighing. “Not yet anyways.”

“How long?”

“Not until morning.”

“What?!” Clarke snaps her head up, reactively pressing the cotton swab harder into Lexa’s skin, inducing a wince. “Sorry.” She returns to her task with more gentleness but accompanied now by a deep frown. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

Lexa feels bad that Clarke might be missing out on family time. She can imagine how disappointed Jake and Abby would be. Lexa tries not to think of how happy she herself was as a regular participant in their festivities, including her appointment as judge of the ugly sweater contest between Clarke and her father. She tries not to think of falling asleep on Clarke’s pillow in her childhood bedroom after dinner, a whispered warmth between them as Clarke held her hand and she held her breath. Following rushed and hushed competitions of drawing out the most orgasms from each other without getting caught—Clarke coming in her mouth and around her fingers countless times before tapping out and reluctantly admitting defeat—Lexa’s sole wish was for Christmas Eve at the Griffins, and their post-Turkey workout, to forever be a permanent holiday tradition. She tries not to think of Finn now having that privilege, of being granted that permanence.

“Exactly. Mr. San is with his family tonight upstate,” Lexa explains past the lump in her throat, “which I assume is also where you were headed.” She looks out the shop windows then, Clarke following her head movement as they both watch the snow descend in steady flurries. “Even if he were to leave now, with _that_ affecting traffic, he won’t arrive until morning anyways.”

Like an omnipresent overlord, Lexa’s phone rings then. The theme song to Sailor Moon comes through with a deceptive cheer. She’s relieved in any case for the well-timed interruption to shake off her encroaching sombreness and the immutable past. “It’s him. Sorry.”

Clarke simply nods as Lexa wiggles her bottom to fish the phone from her back pocket with her free hand. She punches in the familiar four digits of the passcode, careful to tilt the screen out of Clarke’s view and knowledge of their exactness to her birthday, while Clarke continues preoccupied with dressing the wound. Lexa recounts the situation to Mr. San, quick to alleviate his worries by taking full responsibility for the accidental red button trigger and falsely pinning it on her clumsiness. Clarke gives her a shy, grateful smile that does fluttering things to Lexa’s stomach. The chat soon turns into an inquisition after he’s reassured of her and the shop's safety.

 _Yes, I’m fine._  
_No, I’m not alone._  
_Yes, I know her._  
_No, she’s not a criminal._  
_Blonde, blue eyes._  
_Hm-mhm, pretty._  
_Yes, that Clarke._

Lexa spits out the answers in rapid-fire Q&A, though the last ones she tries uselessly to whisper.

“Mr. San would like to speak to you.”

Clarke looks as surprised as she is at his request but accepts nevertheless, taking the phone from Lexa then bringing it marginally close to her ear with all the desire of handling a bomb. _Thanks_ , Lexa mouths, lifting her bandaged hand in gesture, as Clarke oddly only hums and nods into the receiver before shortly ending the call.

“What did he say?” Lexa asks in feigned disinterest despite her nerves and racing pulse when Clarke moves to sit properly next to her after returning the device.

“I’m not too sure,” Clarke responds, a furrow to her brows. “He recited a haiku and then hung up.”

Lexa is mortified that Mr. San might have tried to make overtures with her ex on her behalf with his 5-7-5 syllable wisdom, exacting his penchant for sparse prose of which she has been the frequent recipient after they first bonded over the pitfalls of young love. (The girl he followed to America turned out to already be betrothed.)

“Something about spring rolls and that you own a very nice rice cooker,” Clarke summarises.

Lexa’s eyes widen in alarm, her mentor’s unique advice on dealing with unrequited affection immediately springing to mind.

 _You give her spring rolls_  
_But she refuses to eat them_  
_Make fried rice instead_

“Weird.” She pretends like all this is new information.

Clarke hums her assent but says nothing further as they sit in silence for a stretch of time. Weird doesn’t begin to cover it. Japanese poetry, broken ramen, and the reappearance of lost love, Lexa wonders what else is in store for her tonight.

“So, it looks like we’re stuck together.”

 

— 3 —

 

Their tentative truce surprisingly lasts for awhile, Lexa’s injury serving as a white flag.

“What are you doing?” is asked with less bite and more genuine curiosity, even as Clarke eyes her suspiciously as if catching Lexa in the middle of committing a capital crime rather than foraging for their dinner. The only misdemeanours Lexa has ever been guilty of were having overdue library fines and not having enough balls to confess her feelings sooner.

“I’m still hungry.” Lexa stops abruptly which causes Clarke, who had been following her like a lost puppy, to walk right into her back. She turns around, catching Clarke by the waist in time before she topples over. “No more Hot & Spicy but how about Shrimp Creamy Tom Yum? My second favourite.”

Lexa hands Clarke the cup for review. She holds her breath, feeling oddly like she’s just asked a girl on a date, hopeful yet steeling for rejection.

“Okay,” Clarke agrees after an extended period, not sounding sure but trusting of Lexa anyways.

“You’ll like it,” Lexa promises, grabbing a second cup from the shelf. Feeling re-energised with purpose, she directs, “Great. I’ll figure out the hot water situation and you deal with the dry seasonings,” then calling over her shoulder as she goes, “and grab whatever drinks you’d like too.”

By the time Lexa returns with a thermos of boiled water and a plate of scallions and sliced mushrooms, Clarke has their spread ready atop the counter, the soup base and chilli powder generously distributed.

When Clarke gapes astonished at the additional prepped toppings, Lexa simply says, “Kitchenette.”

“You’re really not making the best case for _not_ living in a convenience store.”

Lexa sends her a playful glare while unsheathing the takeout chopsticks from their paper envelope, pilfered from Mr. San’s extensive collection, and handing the pair over.

“Wait,” she says before scrambling to find one last ingredient, leaving Clarke with noodles hanging awkwardly inches from her mouth.

A moment later, Lexa is ripping off pieces of dried seaweed and garnishing each of their bowl.

“There,” she says self-satisfied then presses her palms together and bows to the bowl then Clarke, who looks on amused by her formality. “Itadakimasu.”

“Itadak … tiramisu?” Clarke tries to repeat but gives up when Lexa laughs at her Italian slippage.

“Bon appetit.”

Clarke clinks the bottom of her Asahi against Lexa’s, each taking a sip from their cold beers before digging into the meal. There’s only one stool but Lexa is content to stand while Clarke sits. Both smile into their first bite.

“Mhmm,” Clarke slurps her compliment. “It _is_ good. The citrus flavour goes nicely with the spice kick.”

Lexa’s chest swells with pride as if she invented ramen herself. It’s a minor but welcomed victory given how things have upended. There have been far better noodles, more freshly made udon and with a real broth that steeps all day, but none of those dishes in Shinjuku hold a candle to the butterflies ignited by this meal. The fiery heat creeping up her neck isn’t because of the chilli.

They take up small talk between mouthfuls, Lexa giving highlights of her time in Japan and explaining how responding to a mysterious ad for a Responsible, Non-Thief Adult led her to Mr. San, his peculiar life and odd ways. Lexa retells the story she’s heard many times.

“Mr. San trained as a noodle maker before he was conscripted into the army. He spent a year in China learning the art, how to twist, stretch, and fold the dough into strands. The hand-making process is laborious but he told me the trick was in using the weight of the dough,” Lexa bravely takes Clarke’s hand and gently kneads her palm, “repeatedly stretching and folding it onto itself. The length and thickness of the strands depend on how often the dough is folded.”

Clarke listens intently, her breath hitching at first but then evens out as she submits to Lexa’s thumb movements, holding still while the gentle strokes become a soothing metre to Lexa’s quiet narration.

“He tried showing me once how to do it. I only ended up with flour all over my clothes and hair,” she chuckles remembering half the store covered in a billow of white dust that took days to clean. “It’s hard work, my arms were sore for a week.”

“You do have noodle arms.” Clarke’s laughter reverberates in Lexa’s chest, she feels it expand, loosening some of the tightness coiled there.

What Lexa doesn’t tell her is that Mr. San’s lesson on hand-pulled noodles was a kindness to cheer her up on her birthday, the first spent without Clarke. It had also been a poorly-disguised metaphor, _Love is a process. You must twist and stretch and fold to the desired length._

“Apparently, I was too gentle.”

“I’d probably be pounding that dough,” Clarke predicts then predetermines, “sounds like a good alternative to what I teach.”

This is how the conversation moves to Clarke’s new part-time job.

“What do you teach?”

“Anger management.”

Lexa laughs while crinkling blues narrow at her.

“Is this one of those students become the master type of things?”

She waits for the volley back but Clarke tells her shyly, “Art therapy for at-risk youth.”

Lexa smiles, failing to keep the fondness out of her eyes. Having double-majored, Clarke had struggled to pick between art and medicine for postgrad studies but equally keen on doing social good. This seems a fitting compromise.

“I don’t have enough hustle or talent to become an artist and no discipline to become a doctor,” Clarke elaborates. Lexa doubts it but lets her continue uninterrupted. “Since I can't make a decision yet of which mediocrity I want to invest my time, this was the next best thing for now. I work with therapists to help kids express themselves in creative ways.”

“Sounds great.”

“It’s definitely a great way to vent out frustrations.”

Said lightly but Lexa reads an undercurrent of  personally affected discontent, and darts a glance to her peripheral. It’s inviting trouble but she can’t help asking, “What kind of frustrations?”

Clarke pauses her eating, chopsticks halfway to her mouth and noodles hanging loosely from them. She shrugs and then finishes her bite. “You know, the usual, romantic abandonment.”

_Oh._

Lexa’s shoulders tense but at the same time she feels a surge of protectiveness.

“Finn?”

Clarke puts her chopsticks down then turns fully to Lexa, who expects to see anger or hurt but not confusion. “What about him?”

 _Pfft._ Lexa wants to scoff aloud if her stomach didn’t still twist at the name of the floppy haired boy.

“Did he do something?”

“Finn and I aren’t together, Lexa,” Clarke tells her, with a careful, probing look.

Lexa swallows thickly, asking with small dread, “Someone else then?”

“There’s no one special.”

It should be a relief to hear. But Clarke’s answer stings more than any verbal barbs they’ve exchanged yet.

 _No one special,_ rings loudly. Painfully.

The flashes come quick: Clarke’s arms around her waist pulling her closer, stolen kisses in hallways, frantic presses of thighs in dorm rooms and between the library bookcases no one visited. Breath hot on her skin and dismantling moans in her ear. Fingers searching and reaching until silent cries broke the air.

 _No strings attached_.

Fast, easy, no feelings.

Those were the conditions. Lexa had proposed them sophomore year, Clarke had accepted. Except of course, their times together weren’t always fast, and rarely easy. Feelings caught like the common cold, at least for Lexa, complicating things to untenable ends. It was hard not to want more when dusk was greeted by wandering hands and insistent lips, and mornings awoken to more softness than Lexa knew what to do with. Sometimes the break of light came with the break of bodies moving urgently against each other to stave off the day’s arrival when they would return to their separate schedules and studies. There was an intensity to the way they came together and then sharply parted.

But by the time study dates, afternoon picnics in the main quad, and dinners with parents were added to the mix, and her phone’s recent contacts list only repeatedly displaying one name, Lexa was ready to denounce her lawyer ambitions and confess that she’s terrible at contracts, or more specifically keeping to theirs. She wanted to tear up their agreement, had even nerdily drafted a new one that includes all attachments, leaving two empty spaces at the bottom for signatures. Their four year journey from friends to roommates to an undefined more was something that Lexa was finally ready to give firm definition. But then came those casual words at the graduation party.

_Who, Lexa? No one special. We’re just having fun._

On some days, it feels like the knife to her heart is still lodged there. Lexa’s education and profession deal with the precision of language. A missing participle or misplaced pronoun could be liable to multiple definitions. She is as such intimately familiar with the fine print, the exactness of linguistic details. When she overheard those words said while Clarke was in the arms of someone else, _kissing_ someone else, hands and lips that belonged to another, there could be no other interpretation. Lexa had all the clarity she needed to get wasted that night.

It was one of the worst morning-afters, though she could barely remember the activities that precipitated it. Between a vague recollection of tears when she tried to confront Clarke and somehow ending up in bed with the wrong type of blonde later, the events were foggy. The persistent stutter of her heart was all that lucidly remained of the night before. Stricken and panicked, and so terribly hungover, Lexa then hastily abandoned her hookup without a second look and two days later, was on a plane, sooner than originally scheduled. The graduation gift, a trip that she had intended to invite Clarke to join her, was extended two months past the original three weeks, long enough for the ache in her chest to dull if not altogether disappear.

“Lexa?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Do you have someone, um, anyone special?” With the hesitation in Clarke’s voice, Lexa can visualise the chew to her lip without looking.

“Yes,” Lexa says and feels the body next to hers immediately stiffen. The affirmation rings in the air for a minute before Clarke shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Lexa tightens the grip of the hand still in her hold to keep Clarke from leaving as she qualifies her answer, “Mr. San.”

“Asshole.” Clarke removes her hand to swat Lexa’s stomach.

“What?” Lexa laughs. “He and I _do_ have a very special relationship. He doesn’t elevate my rent and I look over his supplier contracts. Plus, free ramen.” She taps the rim of her cup for emphasis.

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

It occurs to Lexa that she doesn’t actually know what Clarke is asking. “Why?”

“Why am I asking?”

“Why do you care?” Lexa looks at her meaningfully, a hope in her voice though she’s uncertain what for. 

Clarke refocuses on her noodles, swirling the contents of the soup aimlessly with her chopsticks as if the answer might be found at the bottom of MSG. She seems lost in her thoughts in an internal battle before finally settling on, 

“I don’t.” 

It shouldn’t hurt but it does.

 _I don’t care. I don’t want you. I don’t love you._ These are all the unsubstantiated endings Lexa reads into her reply.

“I don’t understand,” Clarke completes her sentence, derailing Lexa’s train of thought.

“What don’t you understand?” Lexa asks.

“Why did you leave?” 

She doesn’t understand how Clarke doesn’t understand. “I had to.”

“You just left Lexa. No word, no goodbye. Next thing I hear, you’re in fucking Tokyo.”

“I needed the distance.”

Lexa wasn’t going to stick around to see Clarke reunite with her boyfriend while her heart was in pieces. She’s not that much of a masochist. Stoic yes, but not one for self flagellation.

“You could have told me,” Clarke contends. “A phone call, text, even a tweet would’ve been nice.”

“It’s not like I got any warning either.”

Clarke seems to balk at that but doesn’t address it. “We could’ve stayed friends. After everything, I thought you’d have the decency to at least give me that if you had changed your mind about us.”

Lexa is so confused. “I didn’t change my mind.”

“Well, you have a special way of showing it.”

It feels like they are having two different conversations and circling back to square one. By Clarke’s deepening frown, and the lateness of the hour, it would be best to leave well enough alone. But Lexa is hurt and can’t help one last dig.

“I’m not special, remember?”

They don’t talk for the rest of the meal. Two steps forward, a thousand back.

 

— 4 —

 

There was only one sleeping bag in the back.

Lexa had considered for a moment to keep the knowledge private, shut the door and let Clarke fend alone outside, who was still sat chewing on her bottom lip when she left abruptly to figure out their sleeping arrangement. But Lexa’s weakness for feisty blondes who have an unreasonable fear of night critters finds her instead tucked in next to Clarke in the set up in the storage room after clearing the floor of overstock. It took some initial convincing, Clarke looking about as keen to share bedding with Lexa as eating raw chillies, but then relented at last when Lexa suggested the other option was to snuggle up to the spiders that like to hang out at the strike of midnight. Although patently not true—Mr. San is militant about keeping a creepy-crawly-free zone—she relished Clarke’s look of disgust.

“Stop wiggling,” Lexa tells her.

“You stop.”

“Ugh.” Lexa has been persistently jabbed every time Clarke tries to find a comfortable position. “Your nose is poking me.”

“I’m not even looking at you.”

“Your _other_ nose.”

Clarke bristles, sitting up in a huff, shuffling out of her sweater and indelicately tossing it at Lexa’s face where it lands with an oomph. “There, better?”

 _No. Far, far worse._ Lexa realises too late when she removes the sweater from view only to find Clarke in a loose fitted camisole. She snaps her eyes shut as the cold air outside their cocoon is self evident in the selective twin tautness of Clarke’s top.

“Can we just go to sleep, please?” She grumbles.

Clarke lies back down with only minimal protest of dramatic sighs. Because of the smallness of the sleeping bag meant for one person, they must lie on their sides, the front of their bodies less than an inch away from touching. Now that Clarke has stopped moving, all Lexa can feel is her nearness, and becomes acutely aware that six months without intimacy is not the best pretext to suddenly find herself rubbed up against a beautiful girl—a forced proximity that’s only separated by very, very thin cotton. It takes the restraint of an entire monastery of Himalayan monks for Lexa not to breach the barrier. She thinks breathing is overrated anyways as she coaches her lungs to not inflate too much which might bring them horrifyingly closer.

Seconds tick by in restless wait.

“Lexa, it’s really dark in here.”

“Just close your eyes, Clarke. It’s the same thing.”

Lexa braces for an argument but doesn’t expect a soft plea, “Lexa,” or the hand that searches for hers. It’s possibly habit. After their trysts, they usually end up holding hands while sleeping. The small comfort, as Clarke had refused to admit, allayed her fear of the dark and helped to keep the nightmares away.

Perhaps Clarke is surrendering to the same fatigue that has lowered Lexa’s guard in their new confined space, but it feels significant that she still entrusts Lexa to keep her safe.

“You’re ok,” Lexa says softly, out of habit as well, and laces their fingers together, resting their hands on her hip. A replay of earlier while they ate ramen, she traces the back of Clarke’s hand with her thumb for stretched out minutes.

So many boundaries have been crossed already that Lexa thinks nothing of the verbal reassurance she had so often provided when Clarke awoke startled in the night. It was a substitute for what remained mute between them. They never spoke of love but each time she wrapped an arm around her stomach, tucking her back into a warm chest, letting Clarke settle into the safety of her presence, Lexa said it aloud. She makes a fist with her unheld hand to keep from doing just that, resisting the urge to pull Clarke completely into her.

“I’m here,” she whispers instead.

“But then you weren’t, Lexa,” Clarke says after a beat. It’s not a recrimination, and there’s no anger behind it like before. Only sadness, as she repeats, “You left.”

Lexa doesn’t know what to say to that. The break in Clarke’s voice conflicts with the heartbreak that Lexa went through thinking Clarke had been unaffected by their time together, thinking she had already moved on.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore. I didn’t think you cared.”

“How could I not, Lexa?” Clarke asks puzzled, and then impresses upon her to understand, “I _do_ care.” The meaning feels potentially larger than the three words that Lexa never had a chance to say but she doesn’t yet know how to unpack it.

A start would be to return Clarke’s honesty. Lexa picks up on their earlier conversation, confessing, “If it makes any difference, there is no one. No one since you. I mean, there was that one time graduation night.” Her quiet admission is greeted by paralysing silence, Clarke unmoving as if the information is sinking in, its weight prohibitive. They weren’t a real couple—which was the big regret—so it’s not actually cheating but Lexa still feels tremendous guilt. “She wasn’t … it didn’t mean,” maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all but Lexa pushes through, “I barely remember and I wanted to forget. It was really cliché. I ran and never called the girl again.”

Mercifully, Clarke cuts off her rambling. “It’s ok.” Just when Lexa thinks there are no surprises left, she says, “I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Lexa wants to ask _how_ she knows, and if that’s been the reason for her anger, but then Clarke is asking, “Why?”

“Why was I with her? Because I was trying to get over you.” 

“Why?” Clarke prompts again.

It’s impossible to tell with how cramped it presently is but she thinks Clarke has edged closer. Their noses, Clarke’s real one, are almost grazing. If this is an intimidation tactic, it’s working. Clarke should consider a career in waterboarding.

“Because you’re you,” Lexa answers with a shrug, too tired and now defenceless to lie. “Because I was in love with you.”

She thinks of leaving it at that, letting the past stay in the past, but it’s Christmas Eve and there is no better time to give room for unrequited love to breathe than when her heart beats outside of her chest an inch away. There’s a rush in her ears that makes it difficult to know if the sounds will actually come out but she vocalises it all the same.

“I still am.”

A weight finally lifts off her chest to say it aloud but before Lexa could enjoy the new lightness, another weight, a rather familiar one, is suddenly back on.

Clarke appears just as shocked as Lexa is by her initiative, having rolled herself atop, pushing Lexa onto her back and aligning their bodies thigh to hip to chest. Instinctively, Lexa’s hands go to her waist to keep her in place when it looked like she might be double guessing her impulsivity. It’s dark but Lexa can still make out the emotion on Clarke’s face, part longing, part desire, which she finally let through after Lexa’s admission. Something akin to deep want must be reflected in her own eyes as Lexa watches Clarke’s pupils dilate perceptibly, the blue pushed to the rim.

“Stay,” she begs.

Lexa doesn’t know who closes the gap first but the next thing she feels are lips on hers and then a tongue sweeping inside her mouth. It’s the permission they have both been waiting for. Now granted, the tensions at last snap, things unfurl at a blistering speed. The kiss is fast and hard with all the pent up emotions of the night—and the last half year—cresting into wave after wave. It doesn’t let up after they break for air, Clarke returning to kiss her more fervently and with intent that’s made doubly obvious by the added grinding of her hips.

Lexa’s hands slip into her jeans, driven by instinct again, cupping her cheeks and squeezing and pushing down in encouragement. But then Clarke abruptly stops.

Lexa freezes, an apology on her tongue, “I’m sor—”

“CCTV?” Clarke asks after her breath returns.

“Broken,” Lexa replies without hesitation, catching onto her worry. The security camera hasn’t worked since the day she started.

That’s all Clarke needs to hear before she starts up her grinding again, consuming kisses to follow. Within seconds, Lexa manages to get both their pants lowered enough to enable Clarke to straddle her leg and seek out friction skin on skin. There is no time to consider what is happening or about to as Clarke’s wetness paints her thigh at first in broad strokes then tighter and tighter circles. Lexa can feel her clit hardening as Clarke pursues an unknown pattern. They are an uncoordinated mess but neither is willing to relinquish contact of their mouths to better communicate.

The need builds in Lexa to shaky heights, wetness running between her legs with every slide of lips and swipe of tongue. Her bee-stung pout has always been Clarke’s favourite territory to explore each time they kissed, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but she’s dismantled regardless as Clarke searches for the right pressure through gentle strokes then light biting before pulling her bottom lip into soft sucking.

Familiar and worn yet also incredibly new for how long it’s been since Lexa’s last unravelling. Clarke hasn’t even touched her yet and she’s coming perilously close to falling off the edge.

Lexa flips them in a bid to prolong this physical encounter, one she has craved and revisited at night behind closed lids more times than she’s willing to admit. Clarke’s surprised squeak of protest of suddenly being on her back turns into a drawn out moan when Lexa lowers herself without preamble to lick the length of her opening. Clarke’s hips rock up to chase the pleasure. If this is her only shot at making Clarke hers, if only for an ill-advised moment of rapture, Lexa isn’t going to waste it. She wants to remember it, to be ruined so completely by it. The taste fills her senses and spurs Lexa on, as much as the hands in her hair now do to support the change of agenda.

She pushes her tongue inside and gathers the fluid at its source, then pulling out with unhurried intent to spread along the fluttering folds in shallow, bare pressured laps. Clarke’s body trembles under her. She repeats the sequence of mismatched tempo, addicted to the call and response, but then on the third go squeezes Clarke’s cheeks in silent ask for her to widen her legs so Lexa can dip her tongue in deeper.

When Clarke obeys the wordless instruction, Lexa rewards her by bringing a hand around to press a thumb against her clit. 

Press and rub. 

Push and curl.

In alternating takes of thumb and tongue, Lexa soon has her mewling obscenities. 

On random turns, she pulls the hood of Clarke’s clit back and lightly blows on it, watching it pulse with need, before wrapping her lips around and sucking. She takes her to the edge, time and again, then backs away and repeats the teasing process. But as much as Clarke’s whimpering pleading has Lexa rubbing herself in equal pride and envy for the sounds she's still able to coax out of her ex, it’s entirely not enough and Lexa _needs_ to be inside. She withdraws and placates the answering whine by kissing Clarke breathless with her own taste. Lexa enters her with two fingers while they kiss, and soon is sinking in three after Clarke gasps for more.

One leg hooks around her waist instantly, giving her leverage to hit against the spot in Clarke’s inner walls with effective accuracy. Each time hand and hip connect, it’s with a speed and force that steals the breath from Lexa.

“Lexa, fuck,” Clarke pants. “Fuck, fuck, please more. Please.”

Lexa is straining with effort to keep up with their set rhythm as Clarke cants up into her hand, meeting every thrust with a sharp cry. She isn’t sure what more she’s capable of in this state of already lost control. Clarke however has very clear ideas when she turns over onto her stomach, scrambling out of her clothes completely, rising on her hands and knees.

Lexa short circuits.

It takes a second for her to process the sight of Clarke naked and glistening— _dripping_ —in open invitation with her ass in the air.

“Lexa, please.” 

The beggared distress in Clarke’s voice resets Lexa in motion. She tastes her again, eager to flatten her tongue over the engorged lips, then the swollen bud, giving a few greedy licks while kneading Clarke’s soft, pale flesh. Her tongue is coated in Clarke’s arousal by the time the pleas to be fucked harder reach her ears again. Then she drapes herself over Clarke and re-enters her from behind, easily sliding three fingers in at once. Air is punched out of her at the receiving wet warmth. They shudder and moan into the reconnection before the pace takes off again.

Stretching Clarke open like this, bent over and spine arched, is not how Lexa had envisioned their reunion in her dreams. It had always been softer, not with such fumbling abandon. But by how the body under her had called to be taken this roughly, Lexa thinks their time apart might have been just as wretched for Clarke, the need just as aching. 

“Oh god,” Lexa doesn’t realise how hoarse her voice has become until she’s riding Clarke’s ass while pushing in and out of her. They work together in intensive concentration, a strenuous collaboration of bucking and thrusting that only turns sloppy as they each near their peaks.

But what finally does it for both is when Lexa takes the weight of one of Clarke’s breasts in her hand, pinching and rolling the nipple, actions that has Clarke’s walls tensing around Lexa’s fingers, sucking her in deeper. She switches breasts and groans at the heaviness overflowing in her hand.

“I miss these,” she breathily exhales between two forceful thrusts and a firm squeeze, then unwittingly, “I miss you,” which seems to pull the last straw for Clarke, who pushes back hard against Lexa’s hand.

Just as her orgasm hits, Clarke cries out, “Fuck, baby,” taking Lexa with her. Their bodies clench in fixed ecstasy before they spill onto the other simultaneously. Clarke’s elbows buckle then, Lexa falling on top of her as they come crashing back down onto the makeshift bed.

Lexa rolls off and settles by her side. There are no words yet as what just happened sinks in. But when the silence stretches longer than normal, dread pools in Lexa’s stomach. _Does she regret me, already?_ Her eyes water and she’s turning ready to move away when a hand on her stomach gently stops her. Clarke finally looks up and Lexa is struck by the swell of affection in the returned blues. They lie once more on their sides, facing each other again. Clarke’s hand moves up to trace her jawline, a gentleness incongruent to their frantic search for release, causing Lexa’s eyes to flutter close, her stomach to swoop.

Lexa lets out a shaky breath. The air doesn’t get to travel far. Clarke is soon kissing her and kissing her, much slower than before, but now, with much quieter desperation too. This is the softness she had dreamt of. Lexa melts into it, meeting Clarke sigh for sigh until she feels wetness on her cheeks. The kiss deepens before Lexa has a chance to tend to the tears. Clarke’s hand travels below, and as two fingers slide through her, and then inside, the diversion works to narrow Lexa’s world to the feel of Clarke as they move together again. A slower burn, a lengthened passage from fragile longing to indescribable want to generous give. In this unfolding, Clarke attempts to recover what was missed in their hurry, lost in their neglect, as if making up for both of their previous wrongdoings is possible through tenderness alone.

She is attentive to every minor change in Lexa’s breathing, how and where and when she tenses. As Clarke works her up again, their kisses lengthen while time shortens to the measure of each consonant of Clarke’s name breaking on her tongue, over and over. She finds herself steadily falling, toes curling, heart thrumming. Some time later, Lexa comes quietly but just as forcefully, gasping around the puckered hardness of Clarke’s breast. It’s a different intensity to the first but one that leaves them both holding tight to the other long after the tremors subside.

Clarke mouths into Lexa’s neck and paws at her chest, a habitual search for comfort in the afterglow of their lovemaking as she falls asleep. Lexa understands the silent request and kisses the top of Clarke’s hair and rubs her back, fingers then unconsciously drawing the few Kanji she knows. She practises the thirteen strokes for _ai_. When they inevitably part in the morning once reality catches up, at least Clarke will know, as written into her skin, the Japanese character for love.

As Lexa feels her own eyelids droop heavily, she thinks of Mr. San that afternoon of her birthday taking every opportunity to make a terrible noodle pun. 

_Udon know how much you mean to me._

Lexa falls asleep to the sound of Clarke’s breathing and the thought of just how much this girl in her noodle arms still means to her. 

She doesn’t catch Clarke’s words. 

“I’ve missed you too. You’re such an idiot.”

 

— 5 —

 

An insistent poke to her side is as disruptive as the harsh light that’s inconsiderately not letting her go back to sleep. Lexa turns and burrows deeper to get away from both annoyances.

“A few more minutes, Clarke.”

“I am not Clarke,” she hears in a distinct Hokkaido accent that has her eyes flying open.

“Mr. San?” Lexa starts, rubbing her eyes while half sitting up.

“Hai.” The silver-haired figure confirms then greets, “Ohayou.” He is dressed in warm wools, bended down on one knee and looking at her kindly.

“Good morning,” she croaks out, her voice raw from disuse, or so she thinks until the memories of last night come flooding in. _Are they memories or an exceedingly vivid dream_ , Lexa wonders noting the other half of the sleeping bag is empty though the pleasant soreness between her legs would have her believe it to be the former.

“Clarke said to let you sleep.”

Definitely not a dream. Lexa gives a sober nod, her heart sinking for what it means to wake up alone.

Mr. San must read her despondency and is quick to reassure, “I leave the keys with your friend,” which only confuses Lexa, how that can be helpful if Clarke is gone. She is likely halfway to her parents already. Moreover, it’s not the keys Lexa is concerned about losing. But like always, she doesn’t question his weird wisdom. Mr. San tells her with an affecting paternal touch of her shoulder, “You are no common sea bream, very special,” then abruptly walks away without warning. He must be returning to his family.

Lexa doesn’t know why he keeps equating her to expensive Japanese coastal fish but gives another nod, unseen, before falling back gracelessly onto her pillow. Her dramatics cause an odd crinkly sound. She reaches under and pulls out a piece of yellowed paper, a semi legal, official looking document. There are terms and conditions about exclusivity and rights, with checkboxes in the margins all ticked off.

Lexa stares for a long time, dumbfounded to be holding the draft agreement that she was going to give Clarke when she asked to be her girlfriend. The same one she thought was forever lost with the regret of her one night stand. Except on the reverse side of the paper, it has Clarke’s signature at the bottom next to Lexa's very shaky but still recognisable scrawl. Both dated for last June. Lexa doesn’t understand.

“We need to work on your penmanship.”

Lexa jumps at the sound of the voice she thought never to be heard from again.

“Clarke,” she says in awe as if the three wise men has shown up at her door with a Christmas miracle.

The contract’s co-signer stands at the storage room doorway, covered in a dusting of snow and wrapped snugly in a beanie and scarf, a picture of winter only made the more beautiful by the pretty blush on her cheeks from being out in the cold. When Clarke removes her parka, Lexa has a new appreciation this morning for the ugly Christmas sweater that’s back on, though nonetheless shivers at her recent intimate knowledge of what’s underneath.

“Hi,” Clarke says, her voice above a whisper and sounding similarly hoarse.

“You came back.”

“I’m not a hit it and quit it kinda girl, like _some_ people.”

Lexa is confused by the sarcasm, seemingly directed at her. It feels like something at the edge of her consciousness but little is adding up until Clarke puts the pieces together for her.

“You know, it’s a bit rude to ask a girl to go steady, make her sign her life away, have wild, amazing sex then leave her cold in the shower and disappear to the other side of the world.” 

She looks back at the paper then to Clarke, back and forth until everything clicks into place.

“It was _you_ ,” Lexa gasps. “My blonde hookup.”

“Yes,” Clarke confirms, an amused glint in her eye which turns thoughtful. “I didn’t know you didn’t know until last night. All this time I thought you ran because you had changed your mind.”

Mixing vodka and heartache was never a good idea but Lexa realises months too late it was one of her poorest life decisions.

“I ran because I couldn’t remember and thought you were a random blonde.”

Clarke dramatically clutches at her chest. “Oof, was I _that_ forgettable?”

“No, I was _that_ in love with you that I was too heartbroken to think clearly. I was trying to forget what I heard and saw. It felt like a sucker punch,” Lexa painfully recalls, her eyes downcast to the sleeping bag.

“I know,” Clarke comes closer then, sitting down next to her. She sets her brown paper bag aside and takes Lexa’s hand. “You came crying to me afterwards. Your words were slurred, you’d been drinking, so it was a bit of a one sided conversation. But we talked about what happened with Finn.” Clarke cups Lexa’s cheek to gain her full attention, “an ex-boyfriend who ambushed me at a party, an uninvited drunk with no claim to what was happening in my life. I owed him nothing, certainly not an explanation of who you were to me,” then she kisses Lexa softly on the lips. Without disconnecting their mouths, she swings a leg over Lexa’s lap to straddle her, bringing up her other hand to grasp the back of Lexa’s neck and deepen the kiss.

All Lexa can do is part her lips and grant Clarke entrance, holding tightly to her waist for anchor. Whatever morning-after fears Lexa has are swallowed in the aching slowness, by the gentle pressure of Clarke’s tongue and the run of her fingers in Lexa’s hair—a promise of more kisses and mornings together to come.

“Did the kiss look like this?” Clarke asks knowingly when she pulls away, resting their foreheads together. Lexa breathes out a sheepish _no_ , with what air is left. Nowhere near this intimate.

“ _He_ kissed me, not the other way. You were too gay a disaster to stick around to see me shove him off and pour rum all over that poor excuse for a shampoo commercial he calls hair. How could you think I’d chose that over this?”

Clarke massages gently into her presumably wild bedhead mane. Lexa tries not to purr in response as she mounts a poor defense, “I am hopelessly gay. You can’t expect me to think straight.” 

Not very straight thoughts of what Clarke’s hand is capable of arises then, but Lexa doesn’t anticipate it forming into a fist and punching her.

“Ow!” She sulks, rubbing her shoulder.

“You really _are_ an asshole. I can’t believe you didn’t remember our conversation or giving me this.” Clarke gestures to the contract fallen by their wayside. Lexa shakes her head. “I didn’t think you were so intoxicated that you’d forget about going down on one knee and swearing fealty to my boobs and numerous other body parts.”

Lexa cringes at her behaviour, the memories filling in as Clarke fills out the story. She settles Clarke more securely on her lap, who has since hooked her arms around Lexa’s neck.

“You asked me to be your girlfriend. I humoured you and said yes even though we passed that threshold long ago already. We celebrated, many times that night. But in the morning, when I got out of the shower, you were gone. Then I didn’t hear from you or learned where you were until Anya told me about Japan.”

Lexa sighs, a self-reproach for the only conclusion she left Clarke to draw, her previous fighting words now making sense. “You thought I had changed my mind about us and abandoned you. I’m sorry.”

“And you thought I didn’t care, that you were no one special. I guess that makes me an asshole too.” Lexa shakes her head again but Clarke’s expression turns serious, “I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt you, or us. You _are_ remarkable.”

“Remarkably daft,” Lexa mutters. She takes Clarke’s hand and draws lines on her palm. 

“What did you write?”

“Kanji for stupid.”

Lexa feels like the world’s biggest idiot for misreading and misinterpreting and misremembering everything. She groans audibly, tipping over sideways into the sleeping bag and taking a yelping Clarke with her. Burying her head underneath where the scent of her and Clarke still clings heavily to the fabric, Lexa inhales deeply, likely the last that her senses will ever have of Clarke, seeing as she’ll soon die from embarrassment and extraordinary stupidity.

“I really fucked up. I get now why you were mad. So, why aren’t you still mad?”

“Oh, I’m still mad. You owe me six months rent. For someone who works with contracts, you’re really good at breaking them. Who just moves out without notice?” Clarke pokes her in the chest. 

“I don’t remember you being this violent.”

“Unreliable memory.”

“Sorry,” Lexa apologises again then returns to Clarke’s point. “ _This_ contract is ironclad, I promise,” she gestures to the paper between them, and submits nervously, “legally and emotionally binding, if you’ll still have me.”

“I’ll think about it, need to consult my lawyer first.” The smile Clarke tries to hide, her real answer, awakens the butterflies in Lexa's stomach.

“Fair,” Lexa grants then inquires when the thought occurs, “Hey, what did you mean that we had already passed the threshold?”

“You are very smart but also incredibly dense,” Clarke says with affection.

“Hey,” Lexa scowls, raising her bandaged hand, “Not nice to insult someone injured.” 

“You weren’t so injured last night,” Clarke reminds her, moving a hand under her sweater and scratching at her stomach, prompting increased fluttering. She cranes forward to kiss Lexa’s pout. “Babe, we’d been dating for three years. I was waiting for you to catch up. Honestly, you’re a serial monogamist. We were never just friends with benefits.”

“But most of our time together was spent in bed when we weren’t doing roommate things. You always left first.”

“For one, you look like you, and your fingers are stupid long,” Clarke says and measures the length of Lexa’s index with intent causing her to blush, “plus I have a high sex drive.” Clarke takes a second and third finger to continue her count, “Two, my classes were much earlier than yours, and three, those roommate things,” she dips back in for a kiss, “were girlfriend things.”

Lexa groans some more, hiding her head into the crook of Clarke’s neck and shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me I had a girlfriend?”

Clarke laughs.

“Didn’t think I needed to. It was fairly obvious if you’re meeting my parents and then we’re fucking as soon as they went to bed.”

“But you didn’t tell them about us.” 

“They knew. Everyone did.”

“What?!” 

Lexa playfully pushes Clarke away.

“Jesus, just leave me and tear up the contract. Let me wither to old age. Death by lesbian uselessness.”

“I guess then you don’t want your Christmas present.”

“You got me something?”

Nodding, Clarke sits up and retrieves the bag. “Something small. I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

Lexa joins her upright. “Thank you,” she kisses the tip of Clarke’s nose before taking the bag and unrolling the top. She laughs when the familiar red cup comes into view. 

“You got me ramen?”

“It seems to mean a lot to you.”

Lexa narrows her eyes seeing the twinkle in Clarke’s. She pulls her in for a slow and soft and long kiss. “ _You_ mean a lot to me.”

“Merry Christmas, Lexa.”

“Merry Christmas, Clarke. This is the best Christmas morning ever.” 

“I know what will make it better,” Clarke says with mischief, resuming her position on Lexa’s lap while pulling her ugly sweater over her head. The carrot nose wacks Lexa on its way up but she has no complaints.

“Come here, noodle arms.” 

—

“By the way, Mr. San told me on his way out he wants to change the shop’s name to Kuickies.” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wishing everyone warmth and heaping helpings of ramen cheer! This was silly, good fun to write. Hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> (For those reading Except You Love, that is next up on the list!)


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